


The Web We Weave

by LittleFics



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Healing, Love Triangles, Marriage, Miscarriage, Multi, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:47:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26700889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleFics/pseuds/LittleFics
Summary: Hermione Granger survived the war, can she survive all the battles that come after?Everything has changed, or maybe she has...
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19
Collections: Harry Potter Post War





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: LittleFics does not own any part of this story. Harry Potter is the property of J.K. Rowling, and is not LittleFics intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.

**The Web We Weave**

Chapter 1: Prologue 

Hermione Granger is twenty-eight.

New to her are the shallow lines, delicate as spider webs, at the corners of her eyes and the sidelong glances thrown in the direction of her un-banded wedding finger. People find her abnormal once more. They are again distrustful of her wiry, unmanaged hair and vast scope of knowledge. They think she's become unpredictable, unhinged, or worse, unhappy- all of which, those people whisper to their robe tailors and hatmakers, are reasons enough to be wary of a witch like her.

The truth is she is unhappy. The truth is, in some way or another, they all are.

Harry's scar faded away along with his self-perceived purpose. Hermione with her empty womb and even emptier home. Ron and his once great, endearing novelty dwindled to ashes. It's almost laughable, she often thinks to herself, how they had once thought they could go along being as happy as they were on the snowy day in January when she and Ron were married or the Christmas Eve when Ginny told them she was pregnant with James.

Now, Hermione knows, there is too much that has passed between them. Now, she has said to Ron over and over again, the fight that has held them together for so long is finished.

There is nothing left.

It happened slowly, and then all at once. The undoing of them all- like a spool of yarn quietly, gradually unwinding its way into nothing.

Hermione remembers the first sick moment of realization like it was yesterday- when she, Ron, and Harry were hosted by the MACUSA President and his government in May of 2003. Five years since the battle. Five years since the high. The dazzling displays of red, white and blue, the champagne, the diamond broaches, the speeches and the magical guests from around the world clamoring to get just one look at the three of them.

She hated how it felt, standing up there on that red-carpeted stage, like she was part of some sort of archaic exhibition. Like each and every person in the crowd below was looking up and thinking, _'I wonder who she lost, I wonder who she hurt, I wonder who she killed?'_

Ron, however, was stunning. She hardly recognized him on the front cover of the _'Daily Prophet_ ' the next morning in his new, navy blue dress robes, hair slicked back, lights from the camera flashes dancing across his face. He spoke with such a forgien confidence that she hoped he had taken a vial of liquid luck to get him through. No longer was he Ron Weasley, Harry Potter's friend or Ron Weasley with the five- no, four older brothers. He was Ron Weasley, Britain's soldier, Ron Weasley with the hero's ending.

After the party, when he had crawled into bed beside her drunk off the champagne, yes, but drunker off the fame, Hermione felt as though she was lying next to a stranger. She knew then, that things would never, _ever_ be the same.

By now, she and Ron have moved into two separate bedrooms with two separate beds. She stays in the guest room when she comes home for the summer holiday or Christmas even though she knows she'll have to fight Ron for choosing to do so.

"Stay in the master Mione," he'll say, "please, you know how that makes me feel."

"I don't want to, it's _your_ room."

"It's _our_ home. Everything here is yours too."

_"Everything?"_

Something unspoken will pass between them. She'll go unpack her trunk.

It's been almost two years since the traditional aspect of their marriage came to an end. When Hermione, flushed with the victory of her latest S.P.E.W. case chose to forgo the celebratory glass or two of fire whiskey with her team and hurry back to tell Ron. She didn't think they would win. Nobody did. She knew Ron would be so, so happy for her.

Even now she can see it perfectly. The scene before her was so absurd- Lavender's chin tilted back in ecstasy, hair cascading over Hermione's creamy white sheets, Ron's head between her legs, his guilty eyes meeting hers as wide as she had ever seen them. She remembers that Molly had once asked, ' _Where's Fred?'_ at Sunday dinner and then burst out laughing among the cringing faces of her remaining relations. Hermione hadn't understood such a reaction at the time, but it was exactly how she remembers feeling just then.

"So what, Ron?" she asked once Lavender had scurried out clutching her blouse closed over her bare chest. "You don't love me anymore?"

"It's never been about love. It- It's never meant anything."

"Answer the question."

He sighed, looking terribly sorry for himself, "You won't let me _touch_ you, Mione."

"Don't call me that." she spit, "I've just had another miscarriage, Ron, you're not supposed to touch me."

"Or what? It'll hurt our chances of conceiving again?" he rubbed his hand down his face, "Our whole life has become about you getting pregnant… it's like a chore, Hermione."

"So this is about sex?"

"No, that was about sex," he gestured to the bed and then looked back to Hermione, "and this is about failure…"

_"I'm sorry?"_

"Just admit it, Mione. You've had three miscarriages and you feel like you've failed. You've never failed at anything, not ever, so this- this is especially hard for you."

" _Failed?"_ she hissed, although she knew there was a strain of truth in what he was saying, "I've been doing everything I can to save this marriage!"

"See!" his eyes went wide, "See you just said it yourself! You don't want this, you just don't want to fail. Love, marriage, baby, it's all the same."

"You're insane!"

"Maybe," he took a step towards her, "but I honestly don't think our marriage needs saving."

"Oh, that's _rich_! So what's all this with, Lavender Brown again, then, hmm? _Lavender Brown_ , Ron? I don't know if standards of a happy marriage can get any lower."

"I already told you- it's been about touch."

She slapped him hard, "How's that for touch?"

"Well," he shifted his jaw uncomfortably, "at least I felt something."

"Ugh," the noise came from deep within her chest, "You're disgusting. I can't even look at you."

"Good. So nothing's changed."

"You know, you're right about our marriage. It doesn't need saving… it's long been dead."

It was about a week later that the Headmistress of Hogwarts had written to Hermione offering her the newly vacated post as Muggle Studies professor, after all, she had _particularly excelled in that subject_.

Later, she wondered if McGonagall had somehow caught wind of the disaster her life had become because over tea they spoke nothing of Ron. They said not a word of marriage or babies or all the nasty things that had been said in the heat of the moment. And, of course, McGonagall hadn't as much as raised an eyebrow on the subject of the solo living arrangements when Hermione accepted on the spot.

At any rate, she didn't care if McGonagall knew, she was thrilled to leave it all behind.

When she said goodbye to Ron on the threshold he had carried her over all those years before, she said it under the pretense that separation would be good for them, that even though they still loved one another, maybe, just maybe they would learn to _like_ one another again.

In the end, she convinces herself, she's just not the divorcing type. The war has ravaged her of everything but a scar on her forearm- her parents, her ideals, her morals, and possibly even the ability to have children. Ron and his family are all she has left, she knows the price she must pay.

Besides, she reminds herself whenever she catches the bright-eyed, dewy-skinned, seventh year couples snogging in the corridors, divorce is so final and youth certainly is not.


	2. The Residual

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: LittleFics does not own any part of this story. Harry Potter is the property of J.K. Rowling, and is not LittleFics intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.

**The Web We Weave**

Chapter 2: The Residual

_**Newlyweds, Newly Dead** _

_**(August 31st, 2008)** _

_Wedding chimes may have rung or Elathan and Alma Lestat just one week ago today, but tomorrow their funeral bells toll. A memorial service is to follow the oh-so-sensational news received Wednesday that the newlyweds had been found brutally murdered at their recently purchased, whopping 1.5 million galleon, Hampstead home._

_“It’s hard to believe,” says Katrina Gamp (family friend and last-minute invitee wedding guest), “We had just watched them get married. They were so happy.... We’ve all heard of these horrible murders and disappearances, of course, but you never really think it will happen to someone you love, do you? It was a terrible shock.”_

_Shock? I ask. Indeed, the untimely end of the Lestats may have been a shock to family and friends, but it certainly was no great surprise to the Ministry. In a teensey conference this morning, it was confirmed the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has closed its investigation and classified the murder of the Lestats, decidedly, as a hate crime. How scandalous!_

_And still, despite growing tensions, the Ministry remains tight-lipped about its ruling, refusing an official statement for yours truly and the ‘Daily Prophet.’ It’s alarming silence on the matter has prevailed since a string of deaths and missing persons among suspected Dark Lord sympathizers and their families last March through June._

_“I’m beginning to fear for our lives,” Katrina hugs her baby daughter, who could quite honestly do with a groom, closer to her chest, “My cousins, the Blacks, may have been sympathizers but my family certainly is not. Our surname has us marked like a blood stain-- the Ministry has got to take steps to protect us!”_

_This systematic smiting of families sharing common ancestors and/or morals with those accountable for the Great Wars leads me, myself, and I to three crucial questions: Does Minister Shaklebolt have a vigilante with access to classified information among his ranks? Why isn’t more action being taken to protect these unfortunate citizens? And most outrageously, does the Ministry even consider them worth protecting?_

_Alas, answers to such inquiries are impossible to come by at present. What I do know, however, is that two more innocent (or not so innocent) lives have been lost at the hand of a mysterious force and the Ministry appears to be doing absolutely nothing to stop it._

_-Rita Skeeter-_

_The Daily Prophet_

“That’s cheery.”

Hermione jumps. The voice in her ear is as familiar as the smell of ink on parchment, and yet she still must swallow the lump of anxiety risen in her throat before she can speak,

“ _Merlin,_ Neville,” she swats him, “you scared the shit out of me! Don’t do that!”

Hermione is perched on the leather sofa in the middle of the staff room, dimly lit with floating candles and a cracking fire. Only Professor Trelawney has arrived yet, too. She’s been scurrying back and forth between corners, apparently trying to decide which one will place her the furthest away. If it were not for the reflection of the fire in her glasses, she would be almost completely invisible under the cover of darkness.

“A little jumpy, aren’t we?”

“You would be too if you’d been alone with _her_ for half an hour,” she whispers, daring to look over her shoulder. Trelawney mutters something about irreverence and tea leaves and once again, Hermione is hopeful this will be the last time she is expected to share air with the woman, “Where _is_ everyone?”

Neville shrugs, “Oh, they’ll trickle in… I thought you’d learned last year that the teachers are the ones with scheduling deficiencies,” he flashes a winning smile with a little nudge to her arm, “You’re an old hat now.”

“Hardly...” she mumbles, thumbing at the edge of the paper. Her fingertips are sweaty. Neville’s gaze falls to her hands. He makes a small sound of disapproval with his lips,

“You should be reading that rubbish,” he says, “She’s only getting nastier with age.”

Hermione nods in agreement, “But you’ve got to hand it to her, Rita’s been the only one brave enough to report on it.”

_“Brave?”_ he echoes sardonically, “Please, she’s just worried about saving her own skin.”

Hermione quirks an eyebrow. Neville persists,

“Well, it’s not like she was standing on the frontline with us when Voldemort came calling, is it?”

“So now that means she was standing against us?” Hermione’s voice has gone a little shrill. She points to the photograph of the Lestats slow dancing in their wedding robes, “You think they _deserved_ to die?”

There is a thick moment of silence as Nevillle regards the photo -- Ethlan dips Alma and kisses her -- when Neville looks back up his eyes meet Hermione’s and for a split second she sees it-- _“It still hurts,”_ they seem to be bleeding back at her, _“it always will.”_ Suddenly, she feels so ashamed of herself she has to look away.

“No,” Neville relents, then adds after a long pause, “but I wish I did. Sometimes, I think it would be easier to sleep at night if I truly felt that way.”

Hermione’s heart sinks even more. She can’t help but think about Alice Longbottom, growing gray and wrinkled, still folding candy wrappers in some corner of the Janis Thickey Ward. Her own parents only exist in the missing persons case files of Australia yet here she is, defending the same people that put them there. She throws the paper into the fire and when all that’s left is dust, reaches for Neville’s hand,

“I’m sorry,” she says earnestly, as only an old friend can do, “You _know_ I used to work in law enforcement…”

Neville gives a little half-hearted chuckle,

“Let’s start over, Nev, like _normal_ people. Let’s talk about all the happy things. How was your summer?”

Now Neville is properly smiling. His face lights up like his features are on a switch, and as he begins to speak Hermione is struck by how effervescent he has become. His twin girls are seven months old now-- Alice is crawling, Frances has two bottom teeth, he and Hannah are buying property in Hogsmeade so he can spend more time at home. It’s as if his whole life up to this point has been in preparation for this exact moment in time, this exact age, this exact reality.

_‘He’s wonderful,’_ she thinks to herself, and then she thinks, _‘he’s changed.’_

All of a sudden, Hermione feels rather at sea, as if she’s the only person on earth standing still. She remembers her first few weeks back at Hogwarts, how she’d finally felt she’d found a foothold. For a quick moment in time it seemed as though everything was exactly the same. It was only on a morning jaunt with Crookshanks, when the sun had caught the gold plate attached to the new Quiddtich press box, that her heart had leapt to her throat -- _‘In memory of Lee Jordan,’_ it read, _‘February 13, 1978 - May 2, 1998.’_

And then there was the time, not long after, that she chased after the ghost of Colin Creevey. He didn’t stop no matter how loudly she called out to him, he hadn’t even turned around.

“It takes a great deal of energy for a spirit to manifest, Hermione,” Professor Sinistra had explained with a sympathetic hand on her shoulder, “Energy that the old ghosts have a monopoly on. In any case, I don’t think there’s enough of it in _England_ to go around for the amount of souls here, much less on these grounds… you’ll find the most recent hauntings are more so residual, dear.”

She finds herself feeling the same about Hogwarts as she does Neville now— comfortable, friendly, recognizable, but strangely unfamiliar.

“What about you?”

The question zaps her back into reality. She blinks, inwardly cursing herself for hardly hearing a word after ‘teething ring,’

“Sorry?”

“What about your summer?” Neville doesn’t take offense, “How was it?”

Long. That’s the first word that pops into her head-- simply long. Long days of trying to make her life intertwine again with Ron’s, droning hours of pretending to heal, ticking minutes of finding a ‘new normal,’ as their marriage counselor advises. She thinks about laying it all out for Neville right then and there, after all it’s not like she can talk to Ginny about such things, but he seems so happy so she settles for,

“Not nearly as interesting as yours.”

Neville’s bottom lip curls up a little and the muscles in his throat do some shifting. She doesn’t care for the way he’s looking at her, as if he _really_ wants to say something silly like _‘it’ll get better,’_ or _‘everything happens for a reason.’_ Luckily, he seems to decide against it and she’s relieved. It’s the one thing she can count on Hogwarts for -- how commonplace it is to be together alone.

“Bloody narks!”

Suddenly, there’s commotion in the corridor. Hermione and Neville both swivel to find Madam Hooch charging through the doorway. It’s opening night for the Appleby Arrows and this meeting is keeping her from centerfield seats -- it’s surely what’s making her, if possible, more ill-tempered,

“If I wanted to be frisked,” she seethes, “I would have paid my way at the brothel, that way I would have at _least_ gotten something out of it!”

Madam Pomfrey follows close behind, “You’re vulgar.”

“Well, does it look like _I_ want to be touched by a male?” Hooch straightens her robes testily and waves a hand in the direction of Professor Flitwick, “And what the hell are they on him about? The worst he could do to the man is untie his shoelaces!”

Flitwick just giggles, which is his usual response to being insulted. He’s trailed by Binns who ponders, as he floats straight through Professor Vector, why he didn’t feel a thing.

“What’s going on?”

“The Minister is here, along with his security,” aides Pomfrey with an icy glance in Rolanda’s direction, “They’re just trying to keep him safe.”

“I’d prefer if they kept him safe from a distance. Now, say what you like, but that one was a little too handsy by far.”

“Rolanda, I’m sure if that young man had any intention of fondling a woman this evening, it wouldn’t be one over the age of eighty.”

“You’ve been out of the game a long time, Poppy, you don’t know what those perverts are fantasizing about.”

“I can certainly assure you that it isn't the aging effects of gravity.”

Hooch regards the old matron stiffly. For a moment, Hermione thinks she might leap across the room and wrap her hands around Pomfrey’s neck, but she doesn’t, instead the corners of her mouth turn up into a genuinely impressed smile,

“When did you become so cruel, Pol?”

“I’ve had years of practice.”

“Well, as much as I’m enjoying this,” Neville rises to his feet, hands raised, thinking presumably, that it is now safe to breach the gap between them, “Do we know _why_ the Minister is here?”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough…”

And then, as if on cue, The Minister for Magic sweeps into the staff room. He's looking especially dapper tonight, with his violet robes thrown over the broad shoulders of an immaculately tailored, gray three-piece suit. Hermione has never seen him look so strong -- almost as if his handshake would zap you from all the power running through his veins-- and yet, there is something in his eyes that she can’t quite read, something like surrender.

Professor McGonagall is close behind. She follows him, silently, to their place in front of the fire, casts a sweeping glance around the room, and sighs visibly. Her hands are wrapped so tightly together one more turn will have them wound into a thick knot.

“It’s not often that I’m invited to speak to such an auspicious bunch,” Kingsley begins with the air of someone who is accustomed to being in front of a crowd, McGonagall’s jaw shifts, apparently it isn’t she who has invited him, “Term starts tomorrow and I’m sure everyone is very busy so I’ll try to keep this brief… As you are all aware, Professor Slughorn has decided to enter his second retirement,” there are murmurs of relief among the staff, “Yes, we’re all very happy he’s finally taken a step back to enjoy his remaining years, but -- but it has left your Headmistress with the lofty task of choosing a replacement. Big shoes to fill…”

McGonagall clears her throat pointedly, Kingsley glares at her from the corner of his eye,

“As Minister, I have always taken a particular interest in education. With all that’s occurred on these grounds and what it’s meant for the freedom of this country, I feel I have a heightened sense of obligation to the well-being of this school. I hope you all will trust me when I say, I do not take decisions regarding Hogwarts lightly.”

But, even as he says it, Hermione can feel some troublesome thought trying to make itself heard above the hum of utter trust and appreciation. There is something he’s unsure about-- something, perhaps, he’s ashamed of.

“That being said, I have thoroughly consulted with the Department of Magical Education, and together, we have chosen a formidable replacement for Professor Slughorn. I hope you all will join me in welcoming your new potions master ,” he says, although it’s obvious that he doesn’t think they will, “Professor Draco Malfoy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Brb just pouring my heart and soul out here. Drop me a line if you feel like it. Hope you enjoyed it!


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